


these other stories

by Issay



Series: One-shot collection [12]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hermione really is the smartest witch of her age, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Relationship(s), Multi, Rare Pairings, Ravenclaw Hermione Granger, Ravenclaw Pride, Second War with Voldemort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 19:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12153513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Issay/pseuds/Issay
Summary: Let’s talk about Hermione Granger.In one version of this story the Sorting Hat recognizes the burning loneliness in Hermione Granger and puts her in Gryffindor, a house with too much bravery and too little common sense. In that world Hermione fights her way through obstacles, makes friends for life, falls in love with Ron Weasley and saves the world.Not in this, though.





	these other stories

**Author's Note:**

> Well, my brain seems to be on the "let's see with how many different people we can pair Hermione with" train. You've been warned.  
> Also, this contains some angst because have you met me, I'm unable to write stuff without going into angsty territory.

Let’s talk about alternatives.

We all know this story. You know it begins with a boy left on a doormat and ends years later on a certain Platform, and you know all is well. But what if some things went differently? What if, for example, Petunia and Vernon Dursley were decent people, what if Harry Potter wore green-trimmed robes, what if Voldemort was smarter and Harry was kidnapped by a house elf from his own bedroom the night before the Third task? What if, what if, what if…

Let’s talk about Hermione Granger.

In one version of this story the Sorting Hat recognizes the burning loneliness in Hermione Granger and puts her in Gryffindor, a house with too much bravery and too little common sense. In that world Hermione fights her way through obstacles, makes friends for life, falls in love with Ron Weasley and saves the world.

 

Not in this, though.

 

In this version, Hermione Granger in her eleven year old glory of naivety and thirst for knowledge, sits on the low stool, trembles as the Hat reviews her thoughts, and concentrates.

 _Put me somewhere with people who are like me_ , she pleads, her eyes closed. _Where there are books and discussions and intellectual challenges because this world is too foreign but studying is familiar, this I know how to do._

“RAVENCLAW!” announces the Hat and Hermione smiles.

In this world she doesn’t wait to Halloween to make her first real friends. Within the week from her coming to Hogwarts she’s taking reading recommendations from Penelope Clearwater, has a three hour long discussion about intertwining of magical and Muggle historical events with Anthony Goldstein and lets Padma Patil teach her a few spells to tame her wild hair.

Hermione is never attacked by a troll, never worries how to get a dragon out of Hogwarts, never gets past the three-headed dog. When Harry, Ron and Lavender go after the Stone, little miss Granger sleeps in her dormitory, stack of books high next to her bed, exam notes clutched in her hand.

 

This Hermione watches the Slytherin colors give way to Gryffindor red and thinks _how unfair_. Then she goes back home and with every day realizes that she’ll never be able to exist in both worlds, that one day she’ll leave her parents behind and rent a little apartment in Diagon Alley, and maybe visit from time to time. The knowledge stings. The knowledge makes her grow up faster.

 

In her second year Hermione never asks Binns about the Chamber of Secrets because on Halloween night Grey Lady tells them all about it. Then Penelope and some of the other prefects sit down with every Muggleborn Ravenclaw and tell them about the war, about Voldemort and Death Eaters, about how old prejudices are still very much alive.

“But it’s highly illogical,” argues Hermione. “Without the influx of Muggle blood, the old wizarding bloodlines would get smaller and then die out completely. Just look at how many of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families have more than one kid in our year…”

Penelope’s eyes are kind and soft as she reaches out to pat Hermione’s slightly shaking hand.

“Don’t expect evil to be logical, dear.”

Hermione doesn’t sleep well that night. Being hated for who she is – who her parents are – is disconcerting to someone who knows about the Holocaust, about pogroms and xenophobia. Her mind is filled with the knowledge of things dark and terrible because Hermione already read all about Lord Voldemort’s raise to power and subsequent fall, she’s not one to get into things blind.

“Don’t worry about the things you cannot change,” Luna Lovegood, the dreamy first-year tells her next morning. “What will be, will be.”

This Hermione doesn’t understand Luna either but acknowledges that there is more than one way to look at the world. This Hermione helps Luna find her missing possessions and eventually corners a few first-year girls, wand in hand and reputation of being the smartest witch of their generation. Things stop disappearing after that. Luna doesn’t say a word but makes a cat-shaped earrings for Hermione.

Ravenclaws take care of their own. A buddy system is implemented and for the most of the year Hermione is never alone, purebloods and half-bloods tagging along to meals and library and classes. She still figures out that it’s the basilisk but she tells Snape of all the people – Severus Snape who sees a bit of Lily Evans in this strange girl, Severus who is the only competent Defense teacher in the castle according to multiple Ravenclaw students, Severus who isn’t kind but is demanding and makes scolding but helpful notes at the sides of her essays.

The mirror still saves her and Penelope’s lives.

“Welcome back, miss Granger,” says Snape when she wakes up in the Hospital Wing. She sits up and looks at him.

“The basilisk?”

“Dead.” There’s a pinched look on his face and Hermione stops her tingling muscles from pulling into a smirk. She’s grown to recognize that grimace.

“Death by Harry Potter I presume, Professor?”

He doesn’t answer her but the way he doesn’t scold her for being cheeky and stalks out of the room tells her what she needed to know.

 

That year Hermione comes home and lies to her parents. No one contacted them, of course, so they have no idea Hogwarts isn’t a perfectly safe place for their little girl. She allows them to have this delusion. It’s better this way, really.

 

Third year starts with dementors and fugitives and heated discussions on wizarding legal system in the Ravenclaw common room – but none of this worries Hermione. She studies ahead at this point, works in Snape’s lab after hours and does OWL-level projects for Charms and Transfiguration in her free time. Her housemates are proud of her, she knows. It makes Hermione warm inside, the way they cheer her on.

One particular afternoon in November she sits in the library, trying to study Arithmancy and a whispered argument disrupts her peace. She listens to it for a couple of minutes, then gets up, walks to the next table and looks at the Weasley twins.

“Neither of you is right,” she hisses in a low whisper. “Add flubberworm essence and your potion will turn to stone, add salamander tears and it will blow in your faces. The correct ingredient is lilac essence and three counter-clockwise stirs. And now could you please let others study?”

She doesn’t wait for a reply before she goes back to her stack of books, ignoring the twin stare burrowing a hole in her back.  Hermione doesn’t know it yet but before long she’ll be brewing potions with the two ingenious Gryffindor pranksters, argue about Transmutation theory with Fred and throw flubberworms at George when he’s mean.

Hermione breezes through her third year in a warm cocoon of accomplishment and growth. There is no time-turner because she doesn’t need it, there is no terror of running away from a werewolf (Hermione has figured that one out ages ago, let it slip during her workshop with Snape in December and earned Ravenclaw fifty points). There is, however, Flitwick making an official request to allow Hermione take her OWLs next year, with Fred and George’s class.

 

In this world Hermione doesn’t go to quidditch world finals. She reads all about the unrest and Death Eaters making an appearance, and promptly hides the newspaper from her parents. _The world is getting darker and more dangerous_ , she thinks as she packs her trunk. _I wonder what’s going to happen this year._

Ravenclaws take the news of Tri-wizard Tournament in their stride – none of them will be a champion, they know, it would be hell to study and participate at the same time, honestly. Hermione is excited to learn new things from Beauxbatons pupils. She’s Muggleborn, no Durmstrang student will talk to her: she knows this and accepts it just as one accepts other inevitable things.

“Nice beard, Weasley!” she sing-songs when Fred and George fail to fool the Goblet, her laugh chasing them all the way to the Hospital Wing. Then it’s the Halloween feast and of course there is a fourth champion because all things are about Harry Potter, aren’t they?

“That ridiculous boy,” she fumes at the sheer injustice of it, and then goes to read the rules. She doesn’t find anything, of course. And then there are other, more important things to do and to learn and to read so she forgets all about Harry Potter. She watches him fight the dragon and shakes her head with disapproval.

“Thank you but no,” she says when Viktor Krum invites her to the Yule Ball with him. Hermione watches his brows furrow and knows the star quidditch player isn’t used to hearing the word “no”, so she smiles politely, takes her books and leaves before he can say something or worse, reach for his wand.

Hermione still wears the blue dress and makes her hair look fancy, and goes with Fred and George Weasley under the surprised, shocked and amused glares from her peers. She dances waltz with Dumbledore and giggles through a jig with Flitwick. _The brightest witch of her generation_ , they mutter about her. _Know-it-all_. _Brown-nosed swot_.

She hears it and doesn’t care, and later that night in the labyrinth of rose bushes she learns that Fred’s kisses taste like a storm and conquest, and that George’s kisses make her think of homecoming and crisp autumn air. The world wouldn’t approve, she knows, so they hide in shadows and draw comfort from knowing every dark nook and secret passage there is.

Harry Potter goes through another Task and Hermione barely notices, head in her books because OWLs are important and if they go well, Flitwick promised to help her pass her NEWTs earlier too.

“We’ll graduate together,” she murmurs as George nips on the delicate skin of her throat and Fred’s heart is beating against her spine. “I looked up bank loans, made some calculations, I think we… oh, that’s lovely, do that again… we could pay off a thousand galleons plus interest in a year or two.”

But then Harry Potter comes back from the Third Task with Cedric Diggory’s dead body and a tale of Lord Voldemort coming back. Hermione believes him, it matches everything that has been going on and she’s good with seeing patterns. Later that night, long after Cho’s weeping died out and the castle is asleep, Hermione slips out of the tower on soft, silent feet and goes to the Room of Requirement.

“There’s a war coming,” whispers George into her skin and she hushes him. Fred kisses her greedily and desperately and this is not about the future, or hope, or the war. It’s about reassurance that they’re still alive when Cedric’s body is somewhere in the castle, cold and motionless. George is right, there is a war coming and Hermione has no illusions that they’re all going to fight in it, maybe die in it. But for now she murmurs sweet nothings as they hold her between them , warm and alive, alive, alive.

 

She breezes through her OWLs almost as an afterthought, Hermione’s mind already busy with planning and preparing. Atmosphere in the castle is troubled, subdued. Only some Slytherins walk around looking triumphant and Hermione makes note to avoid them as much as possible in the coming years.

Without surprise Hermione learns that she passed everything with Os, and Flitwick sends her an owl saying she’ll be able to pass her NEWTs in two years. She accepts that and adjusts her timetable, planning now more important than ever. Harry Potter has solved their financial problems, true, but there are still issues to work around and marketing campaign to plan.

 

After her first Defense Against Dark Arts class Hermione marches down to Snape’s office and shuts the door.

“That woman is vile, incompetent and a dangerous,” she hisses and his lips curve with amusement. “And we need to know how to defend ourselves, professor. The Ministry wants us tamed and defenseless, and I won’t stand for it.”

“Fridays at six, miss Granger. Be discreet, will you.”

He teaches her the protection spells and how to cast a Patronus, he drills and duels and she’s exhausted – between her studies, NEWT preparations, working with the twins and extracurricular DADA she sleeps four hours a night, six on weekends. Then Harry Potter of all the people starts a secret Defense club and she joins, teaches others what she’s learned from Snape, and keeps her mouth shut.

She still meets with the twins in the middle of the night, cutting the precious hours of sleep short, but she needs them like she needs oxygen. Her brain is silent, for once, when they spend stolen hours in the Room of Requirement, tangled and not even knowing where one ends and the others begin.

In this world, too, the twins leave Hogwarts in a blast of glory – but this time George carries a book with all of their designs, carefully written down and protected with strongest charms by Hermione, and Fred has a roll of parchment with their marketing strategy in her precise handwriting.  She misses them, of course, and more than once wakes up in the middle of the night yearning for the touch of four hands on her body. But it will pass, she knows. Hermione has to survive one year more and then she’ll be free to join them.

This Hermione never goes to the Ministry, never fights in a battle, never sees Sirius Black die. She reads about it in the morning Prophet the day after, and nods to herself, and adjusts her plans again.

 

During the summer Hermione lies to her parents that she’ll be at the Burrow, and spends two weeks in the twins’ apartment over the shop. She spends days in their workshop and nights squeezed between them, feeling safe and loved and hopeful that this will last through the war, this will survive. She mutters anti-conception charms and slips out of her robes, and allows herself to just feel as they spend hours exploring her with curious fingers and mouths and cocks. Fred still kisses like he’s conquering her as Hermione rocks over him, George a steadying presence at her back, and for a short moment they become one being.

She doesn’t learn about the Order until that one night she sits her boys down and demands they tell her the truth. They break, eventually, and tell her all she needs to know.

 

Hermione tucks the memories she’s made close and goes back to Hogwarts, prim and proper, and shadows of their kisses under her school uniform.

“I want to join the Order,” she tells Dumbledore when he summons her to his office. “I can do research if need be, I can fight.”

The headmaster looks old and weary and it takes her precisely twenty seconds to see that his cursed hand is already killing him piece by piece.

“You don’t have to do that,” he answers. “You could hide in the Muggle world, wait it out.”

“Please, do not insult me, headmaster. This war will be won or lost by the hands of children. At least I know what I’m doing.”

Hermione is inducted to the Order of the Phoenix by the headmaster himself over the winter break, and the twins are half-proud and half-mad at her for putting herself at risk like that. She knows they would be happier if she hid and never faced a Death Eater but it’s not in her careful, analytical nature so she soothes their fears and whispers about love in the cold December night.

Long months later Albus Dumbledore is laid to rest in a tomb of white stone, and Hermione Granger passes her NEWTs and graduates on top of the class, her scores a record for the future generations to beat. Hermione doesn’t let anyone see how Snape’s betrayal, her teacher and mentor’s, stings. She accepts congratulations and flowers and promises of the bright future, and goes home. In this world Hermione Granger, all of seventeen and already an old woman, too packs all of her belongings, Obliviates her parents and sends them to Australia. Then she goes to Diagon Alley, climbs the stairs to the apartment above the joke shop, opens the door when the wards recognize her, and says:

“I’m home.”

 

It doesn’t last, of course. All they get is a few weeks of relative peace and domesticity, of lazy lovemaking in the sunlight and endless laughter. Fred and George finally introduce her to Molly and Arthur – as a business partner, friend, Order member, not a girlfriend or a lover of course – and for a brief moment Hermione dares to have hope.

One night they come back bloodied and tired, endless ear jokes on their lips, and Hermione feels her hope wither and die.

 

Then they go to a wedding and the Ministry falls, the Death Eaters are everywhere and in panic they run home, to the safety of the joke shop and their little apartment. But the shop is burning, everything is burning and Hermione wants to weep. She doesn’t, though. Wand in hand, she burns and disarms and carves her way through the flames to grab the bags she had packed. And then they’re gone.

“We need to go back to the Burrow,” says George when she’s pouring dittany over a gash on Fred’s back , his wand not stopping the movements she recognizes as protection charms over the dirty but safe apartment in east Dublin. “Check on everyone.”

Hermione nods, flesh mending under the graceful movements of her wand, spells she knows by heart taught to her by the traitor, the spy, the broken man what seems to be so long ago.

“Good thing we had time to put new safe houses and caches Snape doesn’t know about,” Fred murmurs. “Think Harry got out?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him, Ron and Lavender disapparate during the fight,” says Hermione softly, the terror of the past hour still in her eyes, smell of their home burning trapped in her hair. George finishes his casting and suddenly she’s enveloped in a hug, two sets of hands and two heartbeats she knows and loves so much reassuring, comforting, surrounding her. Hermione is not sure how long they spend like this, a minute or an eternity, seeking strength in one another.

They go to the Burrow and when it’s clear they won’t find anyone in the burnout shell of the building, they check the safe houses and count the family members. Then it’s back to Dublin then Bath, then Cardiff, then…

They never stay too long in one place, always on the move, always running. They collect intel and start a radio broadcast, because Hermione remembers her books on WW II and how radio was used in propaganda. They relay warnings and information, they try to cheer people up and remind them that there’s still fighting going on. Not all is lost. Just hang on and wait for the signal. Fred becomes Rapier, and Hermione becomes Otter, and it’s bittersweet, these moments of happiness and togetherness stolen amidst the war. They still sleep tangled up together but they sleep with one eye open and their wands under their pillows.

Hermione still chases the constellations written on their skin, and whispers dreams about peacetime, about the children they will have, children with ginger hair and warm brown eyes, about a house filled with laughter and pranks and sunlight.

And then, in May, the call comes.

“Don’t leave me,” Hermione mutters desperately when they exchange the last, hurried kisses. Fred tastes like a storm, like lightning and anger. George tastes like home, like sunlight and warm tea. “Don’t you dare.”

So they go, wands tightly clutched, spells on the tips of their tongues. Hermione walks through the corridors of her happy childhood and mourns it, and then stands to protect it. Without fear, the brightest witch of her generation steps into the battle and wreaks havoc, with stone transforming under her enemies feet, trapping them, covering them whole. She burns and slashes, attacks and defends, and Death Eaters step away from her in fear. Hermione fights for those she loves, for those she owes and those she’s never met.

(Hermione slashes Antonin Dolohov’s throat. In another part of the castle, Fred Weasley smiles for the last time.)

When Voldemort pulls his forces back and gives his ultimatum, Hermione stumbles into the Great Hall covered in soot and blood, and searches the crowd. For this one second, time slows. World falls away. There, on the dirty floor, lies a man whose mirror image kneels next to him, and in the cacophony of mourning and pain Hermione can hear only George’s broken voice.

It’s a blur, what happens next. Maybe she runs, maybe not. She knows that there are tears on her face and maybe she’s saying something, she’s not sure, but she finally gets to the Weasley crowd, pushes through it and gets to George. His hands are desperate and painful on her back, fingernails leaving bruises even through her robes. They weep as if the world has ended. Truthfully, it did.

But there is no time for mourning. Hermione desperately grasps the strands of her rage and holds onto them. Anger burns in her, brighter and brighter as she looks at the Death Eaters, wondering which one killed Fred – and promises to kill them all. George is there by her side, tears carving bright paths on his dusty face, wand in one hand, Hermione’s hand in the other. Together they walk through the battlefield and wordlessly cast, green light surrounds them like a mist, like a shroud. And then, as suddenly as it started, it’s over.

They take Fred’s body to the old classroom they’ve brewed their first potions in. Still covered in soot and grime they gently, lovingly clean his body with soaped cloth and warm water, as if it makes any difference. They dress him in his favorite robes, dark blue with a silver otter over his heart. Hermione can hear Molly’s wailing, Ginny’s sobs, Ron’s teary curses. She herself is mute. So is George.

They don’t sleep that night. They just lie there, Fred’s body in the room next to theirs, the woman who loved too much and half of a man.

 

Later, much later, Harry Potter will tell her about Severus’ last act of heroism. She’ll go back to find what is left of his body, and she’ll bury him in Godric’s Hollow, and plant lilies on his grave.

 

Slowly, they’ll rebuild.

“It was his dream, George,” Hermione will say tiredly after another argument. “And we need to do something with ourselves or we’ll go insane.”

He’ll sigh and hold her for a long time, both lost in memories. Eventually they’ll reopen the shop and settle in the small apartment above it. There will be days Fred’s face will look at her and she will still run away to Muggle world sometimes and wander the busy streets of London. There will be days George won’t say a word to anyone. There will be that insane week she spent buried in Dark Arts books, searching for a way to bring Fred back – but it will end with George throwing away her notes.

“He wouldn’t want this, ‘Mione,” he will say. “You know this.”

She does.

 

There will be family dinners at the Burrow, a small wedding at dusk with a fireworks show, and eventually there will be a day on a certain Platform, with their ginger bushy-haired twins leaving home for Hogwarts.

Eventually, some day, all will be well.


End file.
